With a snarl, Kalam pushed the man away, began walking towards the wall of the Whirlwind. After a moment, Iskaral Pust followed.
‘Tell me how we’re going to manage this, Priest.’
‘It’s simple, really. She’ll know the breach. Like a knife stab. That cannot be avoided. Thus, misdirection! And there is none better at misdirection than Iskaral Pust!’
They arrived to within twenty paces of the seething wall of sand. Swirling clouds of dust engulfed them. Iskaral Pust moved close, revealing a grin filled with grit. ‘Hold tight, Kalam Mekhar!’ Then he vanished.
A massive shape loomed over the assassin, and he was suddenly gathered up in a swarm of arms.
The azalan.
Running, now, flowing faster than any horse along the edge of the Whirlwind Wall. The demon tucked Kalam close under its torso—then plunged through.
A thundering roar filled the assassin’s ears, sand flailing against his skin. He squeezed shut his eyes.
Multiple thuds, and the azalan was racing across packed sand. Ahead lay the ruins of a city.
Fire flared beneath the demon, a path of flames raging in its wake.
The raised tel of the dead city rose before them. The azalan did not even slow, swarming up the ragged wall. A fissure loomed, not large enough for the demon—but sufficient for Kalam.
He was flung into the crack as the azalan flowed over it. Landing heavily amidst rubble and potsherds. Deep in the fissure’s shadow.
Sudden thunder overhead, shaking the rock. Then again and again, seeming to stitch a path back towards the wall of sand. The detonations then ceased, and only the roar of the Whirlwind remained.
I think he made it back out. Fast bastard.
The assassin remained motionless for a time, wondering if the ruse had succeeded. Either way, he would wait for night before venturing out.
He could no longer hear the song. Something to be grateful for.
The walls of the fissure revealed layer upon layer of potsherds on one side, a sunken and heaved section of cobblestone street on another, and the flank of a building’s interior wall—the plaster chipped and scarred—on the last. The rubble beneath him was loose and felt deep.
Checking his weapons, Kalam settled down to wait.
Apsalar in his arms, Cutter emerged from the gateway. The woman’s weight sent waves of pain through his bruised shoulder, and he did not think he would be able to carry her for long.
Thirty paces ahead, at the edge of the clearing where the two trails converged, lay scores of corpses. And in their midst stood Cotillion.
Cutter walked over to the shadow god. The Tiste Edur lay heaped in a ring around a clear spot off to the left, but Cotillion’s attention seemed to be on one body in particular, lying at his feet. As the Daru approached, the god slowly settled down into a crouch, reaching out to brush hair back from the corpse’s face.
It was the old witch, Cutter saw, the one who had been burned. The one I thought was the source of power in the Malazan party. But it wasn’t her. It was Traveller. He halted a few paces away, brought up short by Cotillion’s expression, the ravaged look that made him suddenly appear twenty years older. The gloved hand that had swept the hair back now caressed the dead woman’s scorched face.
‘You knew her?’ Cutter asked.
‘Hawl,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I’d thought Surly had taken them all out. None of the Talon’s command left. I thought she was dead.’
‘She is.’ Then he snapped his mouth shut. A damned miserable thing to say—
‘I made them good at hiding,’ Cotillion went on, eyes still on the woman lying in the bloody, trampled grass. ‘Good enough to hide even from me, it seems.’
‘What do you think she was doing here?’
Cotillion flinched slightly. ‘The wrong question, Cutter. Rather, why was she with Traveller? What is the Talon up to? And Traveller . . . gods, did he know who she was? Of course he did—oh, she’s aged and not well, but even so . . .’
‘You could just ask him,’ Cutter murmured, grunting as he shifted Apsalar’s weight in his arms. ‘He’s in the courtyard behind us, after all.’
Cotillion reached down to the woman’s neck and lifted into view something strung on a thong. A yellow-stained talon of some sort. He pulled it loose, studied it for a moment, then twisted round and flung it towards Cutter.
It struck his chest, then fell to lie in Apsalar’s lap.
The Daru stared down at it for a moment, then looked up and met the god’s eyes.
‘Go to the Edur ship, Cutter. I am sending you two to another . . . agent of ours.’
‘To do what?’
‘To wait. In case you are needed.’
‘For what?’
‘To assist others in taking down the Master of the Talon.’
‘Do you know where he or she is?’
He lifted Hawl into his arms and straightened. ‘I have a suspicion. Now, finally, a suspicion about all of this.’ He turned, the frail figure held lightly in his arms, and studied Cutter for a moment. A momentary, wan smile. ‘Look at the two of us,’ he said, then he swung away and began walking towards the forest trail.
Cutter stared after him.
Then shouted: ‘It’s not the same! It’s not!’ We’re not—
The forest shadows swallowed the god.
Cutter hissed a curse, then he turned to the trail that led down to the shoreline.
The god Cotillion walked on until he reached a small glade off to one side of the path. He carried his burden into its centre, and gently set her down.
A host of shadows spun into being opposite, until the vague, insubstantial form of Shadowthrone slowly resolved itself. For a change, the god said nothing for a long time.
Cotillion knelt beside Hawl’s body. ‘Traveller is here, Ammanas. In the Edur ruins.’
Ammanas grunted softly, then shrugged. ‘He’ll have no interest in answering our questions. He never did. Stubborn as any Dal Honese.’
‘You’re Dal Honese,’ Cotillion observed.
‘Precisely.’ Ammanas slipped noiselessly forward until he was on the other side of the corpse. ‘It’s her, isn’t it.’
‘It is.’
‘How many times do our followers have to die, Cotillion?’ the god asked, then sighed. ‘Then again, she clearly ceased being a follower some time ago.’
‘She thought we were gone, Ammanas. The Emperor and Dancer. Gone. Dead.’
‘And in a way, she was right.’
‘In a way, aye. But not in the most important way.’
‘Which is?’
Cotillion glanced up, then grimaced. ‘She was a friend.’
‘Ah, that most important way.’ Ammanas was silent for a moment, then he asked, ‘Will you pursue this?’
‘I see little choice. The Talon is up to something. We need to stop them—’
‘No, friend. We need to ensure that they fail. Have you found a . . . trail?’
‘More than that. I’ve realized who is masterminding the whole thing.’
Shadowthrone’s hooded head cocked slightly. ‘And that is where Cutter and Apsalar are going now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they sufficient?’
Cotillion shook his head. ‘I have other agents available. But I would Apsalar be relatively close, in case something goes wrong.’
Ammanas nodded. ‘So, where?’
‘Raraku.’
Though he could not see it, Cotillion knew that his companion’s face was splitting into a broad grin. ‘Ah, dear Rope, time’s come, I think, that I should tell you more of my own endeavours . . .’
‘The diamonds I gave Kalam? I’d wondered about those.’
Ammanas gestured at Hawl’s corpse. ‘Let us take her home—our home, that is. And then we must speak . . . at length.’
Cotillion nodded.
‘Besides,’ Shadowthrone added as he straightened, ‘Traveller being so close by makes me nervous.’
A moment la
ter, the glade was empty, barring a few sourceless shadows that swiftly dwindled into nothing.
Cutter reached the sandstone shoreline. Four runners had been pulled up on the flat, grainy shelf of rock. Anchored in the bay beyond were two large dromons, both badly damaged.
Around the runners gear lay scattered, and two huge trees had been felled and dragged close—probably intended to replace the snapped masts. Barrels containing salted fish had been broached, while other casks stood in a row nearby, refilled with fresh water.
Cutter set Apsalar down, then approached one of the runners. They were about fifteen paces from bow to stern, broad of beam with an unstepped mast and side-mounted steering oar. There were two oarlocks to a side. The gunnels were crowded with riotous carvings.
A sudden coughing fit from Apsalar swung him round.
She bolted upright, spat to clear her throat, then wrapped her arms about herself as shivering racked through her.
Cutter quickly returned to her side.
‘D-Darist?’
‘Dead. But so are all the Edur. There was one among the Malazans . . .’
‘The one of power. I felt him. Such . . . anger!’
Cutter went over to the nearest water cask, found a ladle. He dipped it full and walked back. ‘He called himself Traveller.’
‘I know him,’ she whispered, then shuddered. ‘Not my memories. Dancer’s. Dancer knew him. Knew him well. They were . . . three. It was never just the two of them—did you know that? Never just Dancer and Kellanved. No, he was there. Almost from the very beginning. Before Tayschrenn, before Dujek, before even Surly.’
‘Well, it makes no difference now, Apsalar,’ Cutter said. ‘We need to leave this damned island—Traveller can have it, as far as I’m concerned. Are you recovered enough to help me get one of these runners into the water? We’ve a bounty in supplies, too—’
‘Where are we going?’
He hesitated.
Her dark eyes flattened. ‘Cotillion.’
‘Another task for us, aye.’
‘Do not walk this path, Crokus.’
He scowled. ‘I thought you’d appreciate the company.’ He offered her the ladle.
She studied him for a long moment, then slowly accepted it.
‘Pan’potsun Hills.’
‘I know,’ Lostara drawled.
Pearl smiled. ‘Of course you would. And now, at last, you discover the reason I asked you along—’
‘Wait a minute. You couldn’t have known where this trail would lead—’
‘Well, true, but I have faith in blind nature’s penchant for cycles. In any case, is there a buried city nearby?’
‘Nearby? You mean, apart from the one we’re standing on?’ She was pleased to see his jaw drop. ‘What did you think all these flat-topped hills were, Claw?’
He loosened his cloak. ‘Then again, this place will suit just fine.’
‘For what?’
He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘Well, dear, a ritual. We need to find a trail, a sorcerous one, and it’s old. Did you imagine we would just wander directionless through this wasteland in the hopes of finding something?’
‘Odd, I thought that was what we’ve been doing for days.’
‘Just getting some distance between us and that damned Imass head,’ he replied, walking over to a flat stretch of stone, where he began kicking it clear of rubble. ‘I could feel its unhuman eyes on us all the way across that valley.’
‘Him and the vultures, aye.’ She tilted her head back and studied the cloudless sky. ‘Still with us, in fact. Those damned birds. Not surprising. We’re almost out of water, with even less food. In a day or two we’ll be in serious trouble.’
‘I will leave such mundane worries with you, Lostara.’
‘Meaning, if all else fails, you can always kill and eat me, right? But what if I decide to kill you first? Obsessed as I am with mundane worries.’
The Claw settled down into a crosslegged position. ‘It’s become much cooler here, don’t you think? A localized phenomenon, I suspect. Although I would imagine that some measure of success in the ritual I am about to enact should warm things up somewhat.’
‘If only the excitement of disbelief,’ Lostara muttered, walking over to the edge of the tel and looking southwestward to where the red wall of the Whirlwind cut a curving slash across the desert. Behind her, she heard muted words, spoken in some language unknown to her. Probably gibberish. I’ve seen enough mages at work to know they don’t need words . . . not unless they’re performing. Pearl was probably doing just that. He was one for poses, even while affecting indifference to his audience of one. A man seeking his name in tomes of history. Some crucial role upon which the fate of the empire pivots.
She turned as he slapped dust from hands, and saw him rising, a troubled frown on his all-too-handsome face.
‘That didn’t take long,’ she said.
‘No.’ Even he sounded surprised. ‘I was fortunate indeed. A local earth spirit was killed . . . close by. By a confluence of dire fates, an incidental casualty. Its ghost lingers, like a child seeking lost parents, and so would speak to any and every stranger who happens by, provided that stranger is prepared to listen.’
Lostara grunted. ‘All right, and what did it have to say?’
‘A terrible incident—well, the terrible incident, the one that killed the spirit—the details of which lead me to conclude there is some connec—’
‘Good,’ she interrupted. ‘Lead on, we’re wasting time.’
He fell silent, giving her a wounded look that might well have been sincere. I asked the question, I should at least let him answer it.
A gesture, and he was making his way down the tel’s steep, stepped side.
She shouldered her pack and followed.
Reaching the base, the Claw led her around its flank and directly southward across a stony flat. The sunlight bounced from its bleached surface with a fierce, blinding glare. Barring a few ants scurrying underfoot, there was no sign of life on this withered stretch of ground. Small stones lay in elongated clusters here and there, as if describing the shorelines of a dying lake, a lake that had dwindled into a scatter of pools, leaving nothing but crusted salt.
They walked on through the afternoon, until a ridge of hills became visible to the southwest, with another massive mesa rising to its left. The flat began to form a discernible basin that seemed to continue on between the two formations. With dusk only moments away, they reached the even base of that descent, the mesa looming on their left, the broken hill ahead and to their right.
Towards the centre of this flat lay the wreckage of a trader’s wagon, surrounded by scorched ground where white ashes spun in small vortices that seemed incapable of going anywhere.
Pearl leading, they strode into the strange burned circle.
The ashes were filled with tiny bones, burned white and grey by some intense heat, crunching underfoot. Bemused, Lostara crouched down to study them. ‘Birds?’ she wondered aloud.
Pearl’s gaze was on the wagon or, perhaps, something just beyond it. At her question he shook his head. ‘No, lass. Rats.’
She saw a tiny skull lying at her feet, confirming his words. ‘There are rats of a sort, in the rocky areas—’
He glanced over at her. ‘These are—were—D’ivers. A particularly unpleasant individual named Gryllen.’
‘He was slain here?’
‘I don’t think so. Badly hurt, perhaps.’ Pearl walked over to a larger heap of ash, and squatted to sweep it away.
Lostara approached.
He was uncovering a corpse, nothing but bones—and those bones were all terribly gnawed.
‘Poor bastard.’
Pearl said nothing. He reached down into the collapsed skeleton and lifted into view a small chunk of metal. ‘Melted,’ he muttered after a moment, ‘but I’d say it’s a Malazan sigil. Mage cadre.’
There were four additional heaps similar to that which had hidden the chewed bones. Losta
ra walked to the nearest one and began kicking the ash away.
‘This one’s whole!’ she hissed, seeing fire-blackened flesh.
Pearl came over. Together, they brushed the corpse clear from the hips upward. Its clothing had been mostly burned off, and fire had raced across the skin but had seemed incapable of doing much more than scorch the surface.
As the Claw swept the last of the ash from the corpse’s face, its eyes opened.
Cursing, Lostara leapt back, one hand sweeping her sword free of its scabbard.
‘It’s all right,’ Pearl said, ‘this thing isn’t going anywhere, lass.’
Behind the corpse’s wrinkled, collapsed lids, there were only gaping pits. Its lips had peeled back with desiccation, leaving it with a ghastly, blackened grin.
‘What remains?’ Pearl asked it. ‘Can you still speak?’
Faint sounds rasped from it, forcing Pearl to lean closer.
‘What did it say?’ Lostara demanded.
The Claw glanced back at her. ‘He said, “I am named Clam, and I died a terrible death.” ’
‘No argument there—’
‘And then he became an undead porter.’
‘For Gryllen?’
‘Aye.’
She sheathed her tulwar. ‘That seems a singularly unpleasant profession following death.’
Pearl’s brows rose, then he smiled. ‘Alas, we won’t get much more from dear old Clam. Nor the others. The sorcery holding them animate fades. Meaning Gryllen is either dead or a long way away. In any case, recall the warren of fire—it was unleashed here, in a strange manner. And it left us a trail.’
‘It’s too dark, Pearl. We should camp.’
‘Here?’
She reconsidered, then scowled in the gloom. ‘Perhaps not, but none the less I am weary, and if we’re looking for signs, we’ll need daylight in any case.’
Pearl strode from the circle of ash. A gesture and a sphere of light slowly formed in the air above him. ‘The trail does not lead far, I believe. One last task, Lostara. Then we can find somewhere to camp.’
House of Chains Page 63